Eric
McHenry
Potscrubber
Lullabies
Eric McHenry was born
in Topeka, Kansas, April 12, 1972, and is a fifth-generation graduate
of Topeka High School. He went on to Beloit College, in
Wisconsin, and Boston University, where he earned an M.A. in
creative writing and won the Academy of American Poets
Prize. His first book of poems, Potscrubber Lullabies
(Waywiser Press, 2006), won the Kate Tufts Discovery Award. His poems
have appeared in The
New Republic, Harvard Review, Northwest Review,
Orion, and Agni. He
also has done poetry reviews for The New York Times Book
Review since 2001, and writes for Slate.
Eric has much stronger roots in Topeka than I do, for
example (I was brought here by the Air Force during the Korean War),
going back those six generations (really) at Topeka High School, and,
since he returned with his wife
and two children to Topeka, they now live in a house three doors south of the one his
great-great grandmother Schenck lived in, and he teaches at
Washburn University.
I didn't know Eric when
he was a child, beyond seeing him, perhaps, when
his mother, Sue, invited some of us over on Robert Burns'
birthday to read Burns'
poetry, but both he and I knew Peggy Greene well. She was a good
friend of ours. I knew her primarily from reading her daily
column in the Topeka paper, as "Peggy of the Flint Hills," and felt I
knew her even better than I do Andy Rooney, of "Sixty Minutes," who I
know better than any of my next-door neighbors, and I only get together
with him once a week. My wife, Naomi, knew Peggy more personally,
as
they were both
very active with Topeka Civic Theatre, and went to New York together
when
Topeka Civic Theatre won a national award for Neil Simon's The Good
Doctor. Naomi was the stage manager for the show, and
Peggy was writing about
it. Naomi is the one who has the personally autographed copy of
Peggy's book, Skimming
the Cream, Fifty Years with "Peggy of the Flint Hills."
Eric, on the other hand, did know her as his next-door neighbor
through all those years he was growing up. She was like an
additional grandmother to him, as Naomi was to the three children of
our next door neighbor at the time. They moved to Tennessee, but
she has stayed in touch for all these years, by phone and letter (and
three visits) until those kids are now all college age.
Eric knew Peggy first as a baby sitter, then became impressed by her
discipline as a writer, hearing "the daily sound of her Olivetti keys
clacking away through the open window of her study," and finally for
the spirit revealed in fifty years of that writing. He is
currently engaged in working with her daughter in editing
"Peggy's memoir, which has been languishing in a shoebox
... a reminiscence of her childhood and young adulthood in rural
Missouri and Kansas ..." (so before her fifty years of columns).
As many in Topeka must, I look forward to reading that.
And Eric is still so young--it's hard to tell what he
will have done by
the time he's my age!
We opened with the title
poem from Potscrubber
Lullabies, an interesting poem in terms of its comments on sound
and rhythm (and other things of course), and we'll close with my
favorite poem in the book, in part because I
spent the two WWII years 1942 and 1943, when I was 13 and 14, milking
cows on two different dairies. My grandfather saw to it that we
always
had music on the radio while milking,
and I believe that there is a special kind
of truth in Bird's instincts.
Bird Plays to a Cow
"A Swedish musician remembers a drive through farm country in a
car full of musicians, one of whom told Bird
that cows love music. Bird asked
the driver to pull over ..." -- Gary Giddins ,
Celebrating Bird: the
Triumph of Charlie Parker
Fifty years from now
a writer, writing about me
playing to this cow,
will call the cow "he."
There's her udder, plain
as an udder, and yet ...
something about what people want
a cow, or an audience, to be.
Some painters haze the foreground
and render something in the middle-distance
unnaturally sharp, to remind the idiot looker
that this is a painting, not a pasture.
The writer will probably do
something self-referential, too,
and will almost certainly call the cow "bewildered."
"Bewildered." As though
I strode out here expecting her to nod
in time or stand on two hooves and applaud.
As though cows stand around waiting for something,
and not just anything, to come along.
Come on. What I do might confuse
you, but this cow was wildered when I got here.
To this cow there is only the plain fact --
hot fence, sharp fence, shit,
puddle, tuft of grass, golden horn
in the hands of the brown man
who wasn't here this morning and is here now --
and notes, too ...
after so much noise,
the plain fact of song.
My friend,
the bewildered one who is still in the car,
told me that cows dig music.
I choose to believe that. That's what I'm doing here.
She chews. That's what she's doing here.